


First Kiss

by saveawallflower



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 17:00:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7540720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saveawallflower/pseuds/saveawallflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John pushed Sherlock away under the mistletoe at the Scotland Yard Christmas party which he dragged Sherlock along to. Needing to vent his feelings, he taunted Sherlock about the event in front of everyone. Always looking for an opportunity to demean Sherlock, Donovan sets up interviews with tabloids, selling Sherlock's affections as sensationalised gossip. A few weeks later, John begs Sherlock to meet him so he can explain his behaviour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Kiss

John’s eyes scanned the square hungrily. Emptily. He didn’t trust the trees leaning together in his peripheral vision, conspiring. Strongly resisting the urge to glance at the clock on his phone for the fifth time in the last half-hour, he tried to focus his attention on the toddlers splashing at the edge of the fountain. They were screaming delightedly, hypnotised by the movement of the water. He couldn’t find them endearing or amusing. Their innocent beauty faded into the grey concrete they ran over. Nothing had been the same since…

“ _John_.”

John’s heart gave an aggressive thud. Painful, almost. He had waited so long to hear his name said in that voice again. But the tone was different. Wrong.

“ _Sherlock_.”

Surprisingly, he sounded soft and steady. His military training had taught him not to betray fear so easily. He rose to his feet, pulling his shoulders back and lifting his chin slightly, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to extend a cold handshake towards the man he dreamed of so often, both in his dreams and in waking. Sherlock’s eyes beheld him for a second, fixing him with their opal gaze, before it was broken by a sharp intake of breath.

_“_ Presumably _you wish to thrust some sort of apology on me, perhaps hoping I’ll take you back, undoubtedly believing you are entitled to forgiveness and the warmth of compassion which accompanies it. I can assure you that you already have my full forgiveness, but that I believe the capacity for our relationship to be anything other than acquaintances has expired. In hindsight, my deviation from this course was foolish and misleading to you, and for_ that _I feel obliged to apologise_ myself _.”_

The words poured from Sherlock’s lips, an undeniable string of rejections, rehearsed, each one hitting John harder than the last. The moral grounding of his speech brought John’s own actions into sharp contrast, and a feeling of regret ran him through with its rusty blade once more.

_“I…Please, Sherlock, you have to listen to me. I wasn’t ready to deal with…with everything. We’re in the public eye so much- you know that. Please. I couldn’t accept myself. I didn’t believe it. I thought I liked women…You…I didn’t recognise the way I felt and I’m a complete ass. I thought the feeling would pass but- but it didn’t and it still hasn’t and it…never will.”_

John’s expression had softened from stony to pleading. He gripped the tablecloth, curling jagged hangnails into sweaty palms. Sherlock surveyed him, less mechanical than before. He sniffed.

_“You could have used a scapegoat for kissing me. Alcohol. Peer pressure. Bloody Christmas spirit. Donovan seemed fond of those sorts of excuses when Lestrade asked her why she called the papers. Perhaps you enjoyed reading that article over your morning coffee? ‘In the public eye’ is right, John, and you left me there on my own.”_

John’s voice was now buried deep within him, beneath layers of shame and frustration. It took him a couple of seconds to cough it up, during which Sherlock’s eyes had wandered toward the fountain. John felt the desperation of losing him gripping his body, its sharp claws tearing at his flesh.

_“I love you, Sherlock.”_

The blue eyes snapped back to his face, the pupils dilating as if to indicate the capturing of Sherlock’s attention. John gathered himself and spoke again.

_“It’s not enough. I know I have to prove it. I will voice my love, I will show_ you _my love, I will make you feel my love until the day I die. Fuck Donovan. Anderson. The whole sodding lot of them. I was never ashamed of you, Sherlock. They twisted the story, I swear. I was ashamed of myself. But, hell, not ashamed the way I am now. I can’t breathe when I think about what I did because I know I hurt you and that thought will kill me a million times over. I will never forgive myself so what I’m asking you to do is unreasonable. But you loved me once. Please, please…I can’t articulate how much I want to make you feel…”_

John trailed off, rising as if the cement of the street had filled his limbs. Slowly, so slowly, he leaned across the table. He steadied himself. Time stopped as dream met reality. Lips and minds met. Tobacco smoke, coffee, shaving foam and toothpaste mingled. Pain imploded into relief, love, understanding. Finally, John moved away slightly, cupping Sherlock’s face between his palms.

Silence hung between them,  while they struggled to make emotions into words and love into sounds. A smirk spread slowly across Sherlock’s lips.

_“You could’ve at least brought some mistletoe with you.”_

John missed a beat. Gradually, he started to laugh- a full, relieved laugh. He shook his head, bemused.

_“He’s back ladies and gentlemen. And better than ever.”_

 


End file.
